A Heart Deceived (20 page)

“It’s late, miss. I’ll take a watch.”

Mrs. Makin’s voice sent a charge through Miri, chasing off her fatigue to a far, shadowy corner. No doubt it would creep out and reclaim her once she stretched upon her bed and relaxed.

She stood and faced the cook. “Thank you.”

Mrs. Makin’s lower lip folded into a frown as she eyed the undisturbed biscuits and teapot on the stand. “You’ve not eaten a thing, except for those few mouse bites at breakfast. If you don’t mind me a-sayin’, you look a bit peaked. I’ve left you a tray of food and some ginger tea in the kitchen.”

Pressing a hand to her stomach, Miri was tempted to refuse, but perhaps the woman was right. She should probably eat. Who knew what the morrow might bring. This could be her last meal beneath the rectory’s roof.

The cook leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Ginger tea with a bit o’ yarrow is just the thing for what ails a woman.” She winked in a knowing fashion, then handed off her candle lantern and shooed Miri out of the room.

If only her problems were as simple as that.

At the end of the corridor, she paused near the kitchen door, trying to conjure up some kind of appetite. Her stomach clenched, but not from hunger. What would become of her once Roland was taken away? Worse … what would become of him?

She stormed down the corridor, her candle flickering with the swift movement. Drat that Witherskim! A disgusted sigh emptied her lungs of air, and she inhaled, then paused. Sniffing, she detected the distinct scent of elderberries. What in the world? She turned the corner—

And her jaw dropped, as her lantern nearly did. Were she four years old, she’d close her eyes and make the macabre image go away. Instead, she mustered courage and forced her arm to rise, exposing more light onto the stairway.

Roland sat several steps up, leaning back on his elbows. His long legs splayed from beneath him. Shimmering with a strange radiance, his eyes locked onto hers. He opened his mouth, but no words came. Only his tongue as he licked his lips. In a rather grotesque version of a tot playing dress-up, he wore her white cotton nightdress—and nothing else. He lurched forward, ripping the fabric, and grabbed a bottle at his side. Tipping it up, he knocked back a swig. Much of it dribbled out the sides of his mouth and down his chin. The accompanying burp tore the silence.

Miri’s hand flew to her chest. Her brother, the pious master of Pembroke, doctor of divinity, was completely and totally foxed. Truly, she ought not laugh.

So she coughed instead. “Uh … Roland?”

A smile lifted one side of his mouth, a freakish blend of guilt and defiance. As far as she knew, he’d never before tippled. Why now?

Why not?

“They tol’ me … they tol’ me … did you hear ’em?” His words slurred, barely audible, and his head lolled side to side, as if he couldn’t decide what he wanted to look at. Finally he stopped and peered at her.

What went on behind those eyes? Did he have some sense he was losing control, or had it all been stolen from him at once, like a thief dumping a jewelry chest into a sack? He blinked, pupils wide and deeply black, and then his eyes disappeared. Rolled up fast as the snapping of a shade. He collapsed backward, his skull thudding against the stair.

Too stunned to move, Miri stood rooted, unable to comprehend the bizarre scene, or what to do about it—her thoughts every bit as ransacked as her brother’s. She matched her breathing to the mantle clock ticking away in the sitting room. A mindless activity, but soothing, giving her time to think.

One thick snore ripped from Roland, sawing through the quiet. She should probably get him up to his chamber before someone else discovered him. But how?

Biting her lower lip, she considered the possibilities. She was no match for such dead weight, not even with Mrs. Makin’s help. Bishop Fothergill? He’d cast them out before the magistrate got the chance. And Old Joe lay abed. That left …

Ethan.

Ethan sat up, groggy. The bed frame creaked, and the Book of Common Prayer he’d borrowed slid from his chest and landed on the floor. Shadows wavered against the wall of his small room, jerking one way and then another from the guttering candle flame. He ran a hand through his loose hair and yawned. Half awake and half dressed, he must have dozed off while reading.

A light rapping at his door added to the rattling of the windowpanes from a stiff breeze. Ethan grimaced. Hadn’t Fothergill run him ragged enough for one day? When he’d returned from the village, he’d fully intended to find Miri and speak with her. An urgent need to tell her the truth nagged him—of his part in Will’s death and Thorne’s murder. If she were to shun him because of it, better now than after the rising regard he held for her could not be let go of. Already it might be too late. But the bishop had assigned him one task after another until nightfall. By then, it was beyond seemly to approach her.

Rap. Rap.

Sitting motionless, he didn’t so much as twitch. Maybe if he feigned sleep, the fellow would go away.

Rap. Rap. Rap.

“Mr. Goodwin … Ethan?”

Miri’s voice, albeit soft and low, jolted through his body. He bolted up, shoved his legs into trousers, then yanked open the door. “What’s wrong?”

“I wonder if … I mean to say …” She closed her eyes as if relieved to find him there, then suddenly pinned her gaze on his. In the depths of those amber pools, hope surfaced.

He sucked in a breath, resisting the strong urge to glance over his shoulder and make sure it was he—he alone—that she sought.

Candlelight added an ethereal glow to her fair skin, making a stark contrast to the shadow that crossed her face. “Would you help me?”

Help her? He’d go to hell and back for her. All she had to do was ask. He shifted his weight, pushing words past the emotion she stirred. “Of course.”

“Oh, thank you!” She turned, probably expecting him to follow.

“Hold on. I’ve not got my boots—”

“No need,” she called over her shoulder, hastening down the passageway. “In fact it’s better if you don’t. It will be quieter that way.”

He trailed her silhouette down the corridor. Mystery hung on the night air, perfumed by her violet scent. His bare feet soaked in the chill of the floorboards as he caught up to her. “What exactly am I helping you with?”

Instead of answering, she pressed a finger to her lips, then sped down the corridor, turned at the next, and finally stopped near the front door. Nodding her head toward the stairway, she whispered, “This.”

Ethan looked where she indicated, then snorted. “Well, well …”

He passed by Miri and ascended the first two stairs. Not that he hadn’t seen more peculiar sights in his time, but here? In hallowed walls? He was hard pressed to reconcile the drunken man in the torn nightdress with the arrogant image of Roland when sober. Suddenly the angry outbursts and quirky behavior all made sense. Roland was a drunkard. A sanctimonious, highly educated tosspot.

“We should get him to his chamber before …” Miri’s words trailed off, but she needn’t finish. If Fothergill found Roland sauced on the stairway, he’d throw him out.

“You hold the light. I’ll heave him up.” He climbed several more stairs, positioned himself to grasp Roland beneath the armpits, then lifted. Gads! The man weighed at least fifteen, maybe sixteen stone. Putting all his strength into the effort, he strained upward, one stair at a time.

When they made the first landing, Ethan’s shirt clung damp and cold against the middle of his back, and he paused to catch his breath. Little snores escaped Roland on his inhales. The man was as content as a babe in arms.

“Is there not more I can do to help?” Miri’s voice was surprisingly calm. Now that he thought about it, her whole manner was calm, as if finding her brother wearing her nightclothes were a common occurrence. Apparently the man’s drinking problem was nothing new.

“On the contrary”—he flashed her a smile—“this could not be done without your guiding light. Carry on.”

The next flight of stairs challenged in new ways. His thighs burned, and sweat trickled down his temples as he lugged Roland ever upward. The man really ought to swear off biscuits at teatime.

Breathing hard, he halted at the top of the third floor. An unspoken agreement passed between him and Miri, for the bishop’s chamber was on this level. Her eyes looked from his, to the candle, then back again, and he nodded. With one small puff, darkness covered them.

Miri’s rustling skirt and Roland’s occasional snorts were the extent of their noisemaking. Thank God she’d warned him not to put on his boots. As they passed Fothergill’s door, they held their breaths. Her brother did not.

At that precise moment, Roland sucked in a snore that tore a jagged hole through the silence.

They froze. Ethan allowed only his eyeballs to move.

But the bishop did not burst out of his chamber, nor did candlelight show from the gap between his door and the threshold.

His heart slowly restarted. So did Miri’s swishing skirt. They moved on to Roland’s chamber as a large, incongruous animal—Miri the head, him the guts, and Roland the tail.

Hefting the man onto his bed took some effort, but they managed to get him atop the mattress with a few grunts. Ethan turned to leave. Roland was sour enough to stomach when sober. If he happened to wake now, who knew what kind of ugly drunk he’d make.

But the slight press of Miri’s hand on his arm forestalled him. “We should get him into suitable bedclothes,” she whispered.

He nodded, trying to ignore the thick tension settling over him as Miri gathered Roland’s nightshirt. They stood on each side of her brother. Miri propped, and he tugged. As the gown cleared Roland’s calves and then his knees, Ethan stopped. For all he knew, the man could be as naked as Adam beneath that dressing gown.

Trying not to make eye contact with Miri, he said, “Leave the room. I can manage.”

“You cannot do this alone. His arms are like dead eels.” Though she whispered, her determination came through clearly enough.

“Wait by the door. If I get in a bind—”

“Don’t be silly. I can help.”

She simply didn’t get it, which both pleased and irritated. Searching through a mental arsenal, he realized that bluntness was the kindest weapon he could find. “Miri”—he kept his voice low and waited for her to look into his eyes—“if you stay, you may see more of your brother than you wish to.”

Deep color rose from her neck, and her throat convulsed as she swallowed. “Oh.”

He waited until she posted herself at the opposite end of the chamber, her back toward him, before he started yanking and pulling solo. She was right. Roland’s arms were dead eels. Eventually, he stripped off the ruined nightdress and almost hugged the drunkard for having the sense to keep his britches on—until something worse snagged his attention.

“What in the …” He leaned closer to Roland’s chest. Dark scabs crisscrossed into a pulpy wound. Only once before had he ever seen anything like it, and the reminder made his blood run cold. Either Roland had tangled with a bear, or this man of the cloth fought some very real demons from within. Likely the latter. And if so, how long before his violent tendencies turned outward?

Ethan quickly redressed him, then, with a nod, guided Miri into the hallway. They retreated on silent feet, padding the length of the corridor. This time when they passed Fothergill’s room, a yellow strip shone from beneath the door. Ethan pressed his hand against the small of Miri’s back, urging her to hurry. It would do neither of them good to be accused of a tryst.

Either she sensed the same danger or his touch startled her, for she shot ahead and did not stop until they reached the landing on the floor of her chamber.

When she turned, her vulnerability struck a raw nerve in him, so potent he nearly flinched. “I want you to lock your door this night. Every night. Your brother”—he paused and ran a hand through his loose hair. How to say this?—“suffice it to say that I will rest easier if you do as I ask.”

Darkness made it impossible to read her expression, yet the quiver in her voice could not be hidden. “You … you won’t tell anyone about this, will you?”

He curled his hands into fists at his sides, hating the fear that thickened her voice. Men he could fight against, and gladly for her, but how to slay this dragon? If it would do any good, he’d wrap his arms about her and never let go, yet at this point, that might frighten her further. So he simply said, “Your secrets are safe with me.”

“It is not my secrets I worry about,” she whispered. “Good night.”

She whirled, leaving behind a faint violet scent, and he remained in the shadows until he heard the click of a bolt in the grate at her door. As he retraced the path to his room, he couldn’t help but wonder to whose secrets she referred.

And how would she feel about his?

22

“Watch it! Ye brainless, namby-pated …” Nigel shook his fist in the air as mud splattered him where he stood. The half-witted driver careening in front of him obviously couldn’t hear him above the clankity-clatter of the dray’s iron wheels. A blind-eyed washerwoman could have driven those horses around the mud-holes blighting the street better than that crack-head. Irritated, Nigel scrubbed the sludge from his face harder than he should have, then winced.